


i see you, in the cracks of light

by rayguntomyhead



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-War, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Topping from the Bottom, Transformers Spark Bonds, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: Sunstreaker and Sideswipe cope, and don't, after the war.Written for the prompt, ""When you're going through Hell... keep going" - the twins have a Bad Day (what happens is your choice), and rely on each other heavily to make it through (more emotionally than physically, but injuries/behind enemy lines, etc great too)." from the awesome fuzipenguin.
Relationships: Sideswipe/Sunstreaker (Transformers)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	i see you, in the cracks of light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> Happy Secret Solenoid, fuzipenguin! :) You had such awesome prompts I doodled around a bit with all of them, but the one with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker really grabbed my heart. I decided to go with something post-war and a little melancholy, I hope you enjoy it! <3
> 
> Warning should be tagged, please let me know if there's anything I missed.

“That’s all ‘til next time mechs, see you at the bar!”

Sideswipe raises two digits in a sloppy salute, metal drumstick caught between them. He stretches his lips into a perfectly lopsided grin, before spinning both drumsticks flashily into his subspace and vaulting off the stage.

The DJ – some former ‘Con Sideswipe doesn’t recognize - picks up their cue seamlessly, weaving and building the background notes up, and up and up, riffing off Sides’ beat. It’s mostly former ‘Cons here, but then it is New Kaon. Not exactly what he’d pictured doing in this brave new Cybertron, but it’s fun and it pays the bills.

Plus the setup is pretty sweet, at Impactor’s bar. This isn’t Iacon, but there’s still plenty of musicians floating around of varying levels itching for the chance to perform again. All Impactor had to do was spring for a decent set of audio equipment, a selection of common instruments, and a sturdy enough stage to stand up to a ring of enthusiastic players and none of the other new-opened bars could compete with the chance to get drunk to a steady stream of live entertainment.

Show over, it’s time for the second part of his night – working the steadily crowding bar. Now the spotlight’s off him that ever-present jittering starts to itch at his struts, the noisy din grating in his audials, and every brush of plating ratchets his irritation higher. Normally he’ll stay after his shift, plunge into the writhing crowd of mecha stomping it out on the dance floor. Lose himself in the beat the DJ spins, move until his head is finally quiet. But tonight he's just... frag, he’s tired. Sunstreaker's must be leaning on their bond more than he'd thought.

He elbows his way closer to the wall and reaches into his subspace for his last couple vials of energy boosters. He’s riding the edge of how many’s probably recommended in one night but he still has the rest of his shift to finish. It’d help if he could fragging _sleep_ at night but– nope. No time for that now. Sunny’s waiting, and he has actual work he should probably be doing right now so he knocks back both vials and pushes back out into the crowd.

Their bond is quiet, muted frustration at the back of his head the way it is most of the time now. Sideswipe doesn’t want to bother him while he's working, but he needs… he’ll just open it a little. Just enough he can feel Sunstreaker there with him, warm and safe at the other end.

Mecha pack around the bar in tight little clumps, close enough to transfer paint so Sideswipe waits until there’s a break in the row of frames and slips himself into the gap fast enough he can slide himself up and over the bar top.

“’Bout time,” Impactor says. “I’m buried up to my audials in drink orders and it’s only getting worse, give a mech a hand, will ya?”

It’s easy once Sideswipe gets into the rhythm of it. Clean, mix, shake, pour. The delicate red lights strung on flimsy wire above him cast the mecha below in dim glow, turning his own bright red gleam almost orange. It gave Sunstreaker a _fit_ when he saw it.

Good thing he’s ensconced at home like he always is nowadays, chipping away at another one of those new paintings of his. Always the same strange style, utterly unlike anything he’d done before the war, before he’d stopped. Dark, gloomy monochromes mostly, or sometimes lurid shades of neon. Layers upon layers of paint like he’d decided to start slapping it on with a shovel.

Just once Sideswipe could go in for watching his twin paint out a nice cheerful landscape. Maybe one of the newly repopulated mechanimals creeping back into the bones of the city. Whatever. Anything else.

At least it gave Sideswipe a chance to shamelessly indulge in his dumpster diving hobby, with the excuse of finding interesting little castoffs for Sunstreaker to glue to his canvases. That was one thing that had carried over from the way Sunstreaker used to paint. Sometimes that was all that kept him going through the exhaustion of never-ending shifts and plate-crawlingly terrible customers, knowing he had to keep on so he could go home and watch Sunstreaker sort through all the treasures he’d found.

“Ey, those drinks coming anytime today?” a hulking mech rumbles out from the corner of the bar top, echoed in grumbles by the cluster of mecha around her.

“Coming, coming,” Sideswipe says, plastering on a grin and tilting his head apologetically. “Kaon wasn’t built in a day.”

“You wanna tell my boss that?” someone else mutters. That sets off the usual congenial cacophony of complaints up and down the bar about this boss’s unreasonable demands, and that terrible weather they had the other day, gripes about the never-ending lack of good supplies and good high-grade.

Besides the usual majority of former ‘Cons, there’s a handful of ‘Bots – mostly the heavier frame-types that do well in the rough and ready construction world that Kaon is right now. There’s a scattering of Neutrals too, breaking away the larger settlements in more Neutral-aligned cities. Everyone sharing a drink or a bowl of energon chips, dancing, laughing.

What a mind-frag, huh. You’d never know it’d been not even a stellar cycle since the end of the war.

Sideswipe slides the tray of drink in front of Rude Aft and her friends, sidles down to the next mech. He just _bets_ that group won’t leave a tip.

“What can I get you?” he says to the spindly little mech still waving a hand practically in Sideswipe’s face.

“ _Finally._ Gimme a spritzer,” the mech says, without so much as a please.

“One spritzer, it’ll be right up,” Sideswipe says, clamping down on his irritation. That slagging energy shot better kick in soon. He turns to grab a glass but before he can start the whiny mech snaps his fingers.

“Oh, you were one of the musicians earlier, what was that song you were playing at the end?” I’m sure I recognized it,” he says.

Sideswipe’s freezes his grin to his face, and keeps prepping the drink.

“You might have,” he says. “’S a version of an old ‘Bot army tune.”

The mech wrinkles his nasal ridge.

“Oh. _Army_ tune,” he says, and without any other acknowledgment turns back to his friends. Sideswipe grits his denta, doesn’t say a thing. The mech’s just drunk and stupid. There’s less than two joors on the clock until he gets off shift. It’s too long, he needs his twin. Cautiously he opens the bond a little wider, then a little wider. As Sunstreaker presence glows brighter over the bond Sideswipe can sense his faint irritation at being interrupted but Sideswipe just savors the feel of him, and after a moment Sunny’s irritation fades and warmth blooms into Sideswipe’s spark.

He really was the luckiest. Maybe he would see if Impactor would let him off early tonight. Especially with the extra joors he’s gonna pull with the stupid anniversary celebrations coming up. Go home to Sunny, towing his bag of dumpster treasure and whatever leftovers he could wheedle up. Pry Sunny away from his art and his high-grade and talk to him. Hold him.

Soon. Only a couple more joors.

In a pool of light, Sunstreaker paints. The window next to him is nearly black, Hadeen gone down joors ago and now only thin watery points of light dapple the utter darkness outside. Not that Kaon had ever been a well lit sort of city, but at least then it had been filled with a hundred thousand mecha, all living and working and lighting Kaon up from the inside out. New Kaon has a ways to go before it will look like that again, if it ever will.

On his canvas black splotches on muddy black, paint spackled in thick layers and dripping down the canvas. The texture of this one’s working for him, but it needs something else…

He leans back on his stool, metal groaning in perfunctory protest. Next time they had a little extra in the bank Sunstreaker’s _dragging_ Sideswipe to an actual furniture maker if he has to with absolutely no wheedling about being able to find a chair he liked cheaper in the garbage. The fragging _garbage,_ like this they were still back in the Pits. They were, he supposes, technically back in the Kaon Pits. But not like that. Never again like that.

Maybe they should have stayed in Iacon. They almost did. Ironhide had settled there, the rusty old battleax still stumping determinedly along. Arcee was too, half Wreckers, and most of what remained of high command.

Not Ratchet though. He’d gone back to the last skeletal remains of what had been the Dead End, dragging Deadlock along with him to help at the new clinic he claimed right in the middle of where the less resource-rich refugees were already beginning to fill the empty buildings. Perks of being that far down, most of the support structure in the underlayers was solid enough the bombing that had carpeted the planet’s topmost layer had only caused inconvenient damage and occasional collapses instead of complete decimation.

But even with most of the mecha they’d known there, Sideswipe thought Iacon felt too… stuffy. Too governmental, too shadowed by the sins of Senates past. So they’d looked elsewhere. Well. Sideswipe had looked elsewhere. Sunstreaker’d bought a whole new set of art supplies the day after the peace was declared and he’d fell immediately into the pull of needing to _create_ again, shutting out everything except his twin.

The only option for heavy framed frontliners in the Dead End for them was grueling manual labor. Praxus was still in planning, and few other major cities had anything more than a handful of mecha determined to bring their home back to life the way they remembered it.

And somehow it’d felt... right, coming back to Kaon. Back to where they were built and raised. The place that had _their_ music and _their_ culture. Almost like they’d never left, except the whole involuntary gladiating part. Now they were set up in one of the newly rebuilt apartment complexes raised in the ashes of the old, living mostly off Sideswipe’s income from the bar. It was good to see his twin playing music again, even if Sunstreaker would rather he be doing it somewhere Sunstreaker could have his back.

Whatever. He’d be fine. Impactor was a good mech, and no one wanted to risk cutting off their access to the best dive bar in Kaon.

Sunstreaker eyes the canvas up and down, then turns to rummage in the bucket of odds and ends next to him. With his other hand he gropes for the half-empty bottle of high-grade next to it and takes a long swig. What would look right in that spot? Some of the tangled wire bits?

Yeah. Wire would do it. Sunstreaker tips the bottle up, downing another mouthful before setting it down and grabbing the adhesive. He carefully affixes the tangle of wire to the canvas just below the still dripping paint, leaving the jagged ends to swerve unhindered up off the painting.

Leaning back, he stares at it and waits for the adhesive to dry. It’s not right. It’s never right. None of it is, none of this, this–

Sunstreaker pushes off the stool hard enough it nearly tips over. He needs more high-grade. Unfortunately, that means leaving his sanctuary so with a last glare at his uncooperative project he stalks out to the storage unit. If only Sides was home, he’d know what to say. Would know how to get him unstuck, talk him down.

And speak of the Unmaker – as Sunstreaker’s hand closes around a new bottle, the steady hum of Sideswipe in the back of his head grows louder, his twin’s presence buzzing with irritation and unhappiness. He flares a little faux irritation at what five kliks earlier would have been an interruption but it’s only a beat more before he lets it flicker out and opens his end wider, letting warmth bloom from his spark to Sides’.

Soon. Sideswipe would be home soon.

More high-grade doesn’t help. Sunstreaker can _feel_ it, right there on the edge of his processor like a ghostly afterimage, the edges of what he wants to create. If he could just get his processor to slow down, to _focus,_ maybe he could actually something out of this one. Maybe some more of the larger metal chips in the lower corner, lined up neat rows one beside the other like a–

He stares down the canvas. He thinks of tugging on the bond again, feeling the little starburst of happiness tinged with exhaustion as Sideswipe answers him. Through the thin, uninsulated window the low murmur of the city spikes with screams and cheers. The Pitsdamned anniversary celebration doesn’t even start until tomorrow and yet there they are, gabbing and screaming and _banging things._ Fragging maddening. He shutters his optics, cycles his ventilation systems and tries desperately to focus on anything but the noise, the weight of the paintbrush in his hand, the faint sense of Sideswipe somewhere out there.

It doesn’t work. The noise is everywhere and Sideswipe is still joors away from finishing his shift. Sunsteraker pops the cap off his new bottle and takes another pull before setting it between his legs and turning back to his canvas.

By the time Sideswipe’s shift finishes, the last flickers of energy from the shots are finished too and with it any desire to stay and mingle longer. If how he felt earlier was any indication, Sunstreaker can definitely be lured away from glaring down canvases in favor of more entertaining activities. Hopefully. He’s been a mood recently. If by recently Sideswipe means the last half stellar cycle.

As he hops up the last couple steps to their home he leans forward, letting the automatic bioscanner read his spark signature. It beeps a cheerful welcome and he leans his elbows on the handle, shouldering the door open as he starts to pull bags out of his subspace.

“Sunny!” he yells in the general direction of the side room Sunny’s claimed as a studio. “Get your gorgeous aft out here and help me before I drop something.”

An exaggeratedly exasperated snarl is the only response and Sideswipe rolls his optics and kicks the door shut behind him.

“I stopped and picked you up some new material to go through,” he says. “You wanna pick out your favorites? I got us leftovers from the bar too, I know you haven’t eaten.”

Ahah – thankfully the counter’s still as bare as Sideswipe left it this moring which. Well. Made it a lot easier to dump his various bag and boxes on top of it but definitely confirmed that sunny hadn’t left his studio to do anything reasonable like eat. Or stretch. Ugh.

“I told you I already have enough of your junk,” Sunstreaker says, and _there_ he is!

“Sunshine!” Sideswipe says, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m hurt, I really am. Junk? Is that all I am to you?”

Sunstreaker ignores him, already happily picking through the biggest bag full of bits and bobs just like Sideswipe knew he would. Occasionally something is set to the side, the rest thrown haphazardly back.

“I mean it though,” Sideswipe says. “You need to eat.”

“I did eat,” Sunstreaker says, determinedly not looking up.

“Uh huh,” Sideswipe says. “I’m not counting high-grade and you know it.”

“’S fuel,” Sunstreaker says. “Fuel’s fuel, _mentor_.”

Sideswipe blows a rude noise through his vents and leans half over Sunstreaker’s shoulder.

“Don’t give me that slag,” he says. “You need to stop doing this to yourself.”

Sunstreaker’s field flare in jagged irritation, every flicker of frustration flaring bright.

“Oh, _I_ should stop,” he says, and where the Pits is this coming from? “I should stop. How about you come back and tell me that _after_ you stop staying out every night until practically morning?”

Sideswipe levers himself upright, tugs Sunstreaker around to face him.

“What– Sunny I’m working, it’s not like I’m fragging off to go have a good time without you,” Sideswipe says. “Do you _want_ to come with me and deal with a bunch of drunk, trigger-happy, noisy mechs all night? No? Okay, then don’t–“

“You’re _not_ always working, I know what your hours are, Sideswipe,” Sunstreakers says, letting go of whatever trinket he was feeling up to jab Sideswipe in the chestplate.

“Well _maybe_ I want to spend some time remembering that not everyone wants to kill us anymore!” Sideswipe crowds further, pushing close enough to weave their fields together because whatever’s bothering Sunstreaker, it’s more than what he’s saying, of course it is, but Sideswipe’s exhausted and he needs his sparkmate, not a fight. “Maybe after I’ve had to smile and nod while a bunch of ‘Cons ‘accidentally’ spill drinks on me or some fraggin’ Nail gets a screw up his ports because I fought I want to dance with mechs who _know_ what it was like and still want to dance _anyway_.”

Sunstreaker stares at him.

“Why would you want to remember,” Sunstreaker says. “I’m trying to anything _but_ remember and you, I– Pits, Sides.”

His hand on Sideswipe’s chest is slowly relaxing, cupping just over his spark.

“It never stops,” he says, low. “I can’t make a painting worth slag now that I finally have supplies, I can’t focus, you’re always working and it’s– I–“

The anger in his field dims as it meshes with Sideswipe’s, whatever angry miserable thing caught behind his eyes withering with every pulse of their sparks.

“Sunny,” Sideswipe says. “C’mon. Look at me.”

Sunstreaker drags his head up, hand still clutched to Sideswipe’s chest.

“Hey,” Sideswipe says. “’S’okay. I got you.”

Sunstreaker huffs, but he stares at Sideswipe like now he’s started he can’t bear to look away.

“C’mon, take me to bed?” Sideswipe says, reaching to take his hand and tangle their digits together. Sunstreaker nods, following blindly as Sideswipe leads him through the doorway and into their tiny berthroom.

The heap of padded, rust-red bedding scrunches along one wall, leaving plenty of room for Sideswipe to tug Sunstreaker forward and spin him around, push him down onto the berth. Sunstreaker goes with it, lets Sideswipe fuss and position him how he wants but doesn't let go of Sideswipe’s hand clenched in his own even as Sideswipe crawls on top of him.

Finally. It’s been too long since they’ve done this, way too fragging long. Sideswipe grins down at Sunstreaker and slides his knees to either side of Sunstreaker’s hips. Sunstreaker’s vents catch, the center of his optics spiraling wide as the gorgeous blue of his optics starts to whiten as he field warms with arousal.

Yeah. This is good.

Sideswipe smirks down, slowly rocks his hips back and forth in lazy rhythm, little movements that drag their frames against each other. He pins Sunstreaker’s hands by his helm, keeps them there as he starts to rolls his hips faster, fluid, moving to a phantom beat.

“Been thinking about you all day,” Sideswipe says, smirking at the needy sound Sunstreaker makes at that, “woke up with you already painting, had to work myself open, ride my own digits ‘cause you weren’t there to fill me up.”

Sunstreaker’s mouth parts and he strains against Sideswipe’s grip, bucking up hard when Sideswipe puts his weight into his grip.

“Yeah, you like that?” Sideswipe croons smug, slowing the rhythm of his hips back down and pushing up just enough on his knees to turn the pressure into a maddening tease. “Like the thought of me all needy, fragging myself on my own digits thinking about you?”

Sunstreaker snaps his denta in frustration in a way Sideswipe finds _immensely_ satisfying, making one last heave against Sideswipe’s grip before going limp. Beneath the dance of Sideswipe’s frame though there’s a quiet _schnick_ and Sideswipe looks down. Sunstreaker’s panel is open, spike pressurized and rutting against Sideswipe’s still closed panel in desperate little jerks. Sideswipe’s grin widens and he palms the edge of his bumper, slides his hand down slowly, slowly, until it’s between his legs and he can wrap a hand around the top of Sunstreaker’s spike.

He wants Sunstreaker inside him, wants to feel that heat and passion and love tangling in his field as he takes his sparkmate’s spike, wants it _desperately_ but first…

He curves a little closer to his twin and murmurs tauntingly. “Y’know, under my panel I’m still all wet and open for you.”

Before Sunstreaker can do more than growl Sideswipe transforms his panel away, hurriedly adjusts the angle of his frame so he can sink down just enough to let the head of Sunstreaker’s spike fuck up into his valve. It wasn’t just dirty talk – he’s practically soaked, valve already contracting down in fitful little pulses around the top of Sunny’s spike.

“Feel that?” Sideswipe says, pulling the need in Sunstreaker’s field into himself, looping it back and building it higher. “Feel how ready I am for you?”

“Sides, _Sides,_ ” Sunstreaker says, vocalizer full of static. “Please.”

It always sends a thrill shooting through Sideswipe’s spark when he can get his quiet twin like this, desperate, and wild, and vocal. Honestly he’s impressed with himself for dragging things out this long so he doesn’t tease anymore, sinks down further and further until Sunstreaker’s grip practically dents his hands, optics white and mouth open as Sideswipe finally takes all of him in.

“That’s it,” Sideswipe moans, and he lifts up, drops, lifts and drops, slowly moving faster until Sunstreaker gives up and shutters his optics, letting out all these heady little hiccupping pants. Always so quiet his brother, even like this. “So good to me. Feel good for you too, sweetspark?”

“ _Sides_ ,” Sunstreaker mouths, vocalizer fuzzed with static and optics locked on the join of their frames. Neither one of them are going to last long this round but that’s fine. They have all night, they have _every_ night. Nothing’s guaranteed of course, never is, but at least there’s no fatalism to it, no knowledge that if the last battle hadn’t gotten them the next one could. They're finally free. They can _have_ this. 

Sunstreaker's close, Sideswipe can feel it in his spark. He's dragging Sideswipe with him, and Sideswipe chants, “C’mon, c’mon,” speeding up and tilting his hips back to get Sunstreaker even deeper, he _needs_ him, needs this, their bodies moving in rhythm with their sparks. “That’s it, give it to me, let me watch you overload. Told you I’ve been thinking about this all day, gonna look so gorgeous.” 

That does it, the next time Sideswipe grinds himself down Sunstreaker moans, low and desperate like it's being pulled from his chest, curling up enough his helm almost meets Sideswipe’s torso. Sideswipe lets go of Sunstreaker's hands to cup his face, bringing their helms together as Sunstreaker grabs for his hips to hold Sideswipe down. They’re both going to be covered in dents tomorrow but right now Sideswipe doesn’t give a flying frag about anything except Sunstreaker, the feel of him coming apart inside him, the sound of Sideswipe’s name in his mouth.

They don’t move for a long moment, the sound of their cooling fans just barely louder than the noise still seeping in from outside. Slowly, cable by cable Sunstreaker relaxes back down, Sideswipe following him, unwilling to separate just yet. Cold air wafts over their plating as the icy Kaon wind slips in through the cracks in the apartment seams, which at first is a welcome relief from the heat but as his systems cool it dips into uncomfortable. Sideswipe squirms, keeping his optics shuttered as he gropes at the pile of bedding until he can snag a corner of a blanket and pull it half over them.

Sunstreaker mumbles a little under his breath, systems slowly spinning back up. Might as well go for it now then.

“You wanna talk to me now?” Sideswipe says. “Or you could listen while I tell you about my night. Horrible customers and all.”

For a long moment Sunstreaker doesn’t say anything. Suddenly he’s moving, dumping Sideswipe off him and manhandling them both into the pile of blankets with Sideswipe on his back and himself settled on top. Doesn't even complain about the mess. He tucks his helm up under Sideswipe’s chin, hand curled over Sides’ spark and one leg thrown over his knees and he’s doing that thing again, where he queues up his vocalizer like he’s going to say something fifty times before he actually does.

“Day after tomorrow’s the anniversary,” he says finally.

Right. Sideswipe had been trying to forget that.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“Did you picture it would be like this, after the war?” Sunstreaker says.

“Did I– you’re half of my spark, dumbaft, you know I didn’t,” Sideswipe says.

“I know, I just…”

That seems to be where Sunstreaker runs out of words because he doesn’t finish, just growls into Sideswipe’s shoulder.

“ _You_ thought about after the war,” Sideswipe says after a klik. He reaches a hand around to pet one of Sunstreaker’s audial fins. “I remember. You were always the optimistic one.”

Sunstreaker scrapes his teeth along the edge of Sideswipe’s plating.

“You take that back, I am nothing but brutally pragmatist," he says, the filthy liar.

Sideswipe rolls his eyes at the ceiling.

“Well, my brutal pragmatist,” Sideswipe says. “It’s almost a stellar cycle. It living up to expectation?”

Sunstreaker curls closer, clinging tight as he quietly vents out and yeah. Pretty much.

“I can’t hold down a job that’s anything but grunt work and I can’t even pretend that my battle mods spin up like some jumpy new recruit every time someone flashes that damn purple badge. I can’t paint, it doesn’t come out right, I can’t make it _right,_ ” Sunstreaker mumbles into Sideswipe’s neck cabling. “It’s like it’s not over. Like it’ll never be over.”

Sideswipe stare at the ceiling, still rubbing a helm fin gently, mind blank.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

Sunstreaker lets out a miserable little sound.

“It was supposed to be _better,_ ” he says. “It was supposed to be different. Why did everyone always talk like it’d be different?”

And Sideswipe doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why either. They’re one spark in the end, after all. All he’d done is get on with things, move fast enough nothing stayed in focus very long. Can’t worry about the future when you’re overwhelmed with the now. Funny how that worked less now there were fewer actual problems to keep him up at night.

"Maybe it is, for them,” he says. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s all an act we put on for each other. I don’t know. I don’t really care. We have food. A roof. You’ve got your paints, I’ve got the music and the crowd. We’re here. We’re _both_ here. That’s all we really need, right?”

Sunstreaker nods into Sideswipe’s neck, and he can feel the thought before it’s even formed.

“Merge now?” he says.

“In a minute,” Sunstreaker says, tangling their frames closer. “Wanna hold you first.”

How in the stars did Sideswipe get so lucky? All those mecha out there, all those lonely sparks still searching and Sunny is _his._

“Of course,” he says. “I got you.”

Sunstreaker blindly reaches a hand up to cup Sideswipe’s cheek, nuzzles just over his spark.

“You too,” he says. “Got you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, all! Have a thing from Neil Gaiman - "Hold on. Hang on, by the skin of your teeth if you have to. Make art -- or whatever you make -- if you can make it. But if all you can manage is to get out of bed in the morning, then do that and be proud of what you've managed, not frustrated by what you haven't. Remember, you aren't alone, no matter how much it feels like it some times. And never forget that, sometimes, it's only when it gets really dark that we can see the stars." (https://journal.neilgaiman.com/2020/12/a-new-years-thoughts-and-old-ones.html)


End file.
